


Research

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:36:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late at night in the library, Dorian turns Trevelyan into a stammering mess. As usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Research

Under any lighting, Dorian is an attractive man, but the moonlight streaming through the library windows reveals him for the masterpiece of Tevinter engineering that he is. Slants and sparkle, curves and curlicues, straps and strapping muscle – he's beautiful, simply magnificent _._ Trevelyan won't look away.

No – _can't._ Maker's breath, Dorian is every bit the desire demon the Chantry always claimed a Tevinter magister would be. Looking at him, Trevelyan can still hear Sister Dorcas wheezing in his ear: "Beware the snake; for though its skin is beautiful, its kiss is poison."

Trevelyan wonders if maybe he could do with a bit more poison in his life. Not much, of course. Just a taste… just one taste…

"What are you staring at?" Dorian asks, one of his perfectly shaped brows quirking upward.

"Nothing," mutters Trevelyan, quickly averting his eyes to the floor.

Dorian clucks his tongue in a way that lets Trevelyan know, in no uncertain terms, that he is not fooled. "I wasn't aware my ass was made of nothing," he says. "A shame, really. I do work so very hard on making it _something_."

Trevelyan's face burns. "Sorry," he mumbles at his feet.

"No need to apologize." Dorian waits until Trevelyan looks up before continuing; his gaze is hot, half-lidded. Inviting. "Please, do continue gawking at my nothing for as long as you like."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Trevelyan turns his body toward the books and prays that a Fade Rift will open in the library and swallow him whole. "I'm just here for a book," he mumbles.

Dorian smirks, because _of course_ he does. "Which one?"

Awkwardly, Trevelyan shuffles past Dorian without touching him—a difficult feat, seeing as how the mage has somehow angled himself in front of the stacks so that he is as impassable as a Qunari dreadnought. A half-smile plays on his lips. Of course he'd be enjoying this.

Once past, Trevelyan grabs the first book within reach. "This one."

Dorian leans over his shoulder, so close, _too_ close, and reads aloud the spine.

" _The Reproductive Habits of Gurns, Brontos, And Other Odd-Toed Ungulates of The Hissing Wastes._ My, my, Inquisitor." Dorian's breath flutters against Trevelyan's bare neck. "What curious taste you have in bedtime stories."

Trevelyan swallows. If he turned his head just a few inches to the left, his lips would meet Dorian's. Cover them. Warm. Wet. The thought goes straight to his gut, and other parts beyond. His knees threaten to wobble, treacherous things.

Steeling himself as best he can, Trevelyan says the first thing that comes to mind. "It's, uh, for a report."

"Is it now?" Dorian chuckles, low and throaty, and suddenly Trevelyan is very happy he is facing away from the Tevinter, as these trousers leave little to the imagination. "I wonder, which of his advisors keeps our fearless Inquisitor up at night doing book reports, hmm? Ten sovereigns it's Cullen. Though I wouldn't put it past Josie."

Dorian's voice catches slightly, hesitates just a fraction of a moment too long. If it were any other man, it might betray doubt, insecurity. For Dorian, though, it just sounds dramatic. "Does he—I mean, you—want company?"

"No, no," Trevelyan squeaks. "That's not necessary."

"Oh."

The syllable hangs between them, heavier with each heartbeat, the natural end to yet another conversation in which Trevelyan lost his footing. He should leave. Go back to his quarters. Take a cold bath. Masturbate furiously. Something. But for some damned reason, he can't make his feet move.

It's been like this for weeks now: Dorian in pursuit, like the hunter to the hart; Trevelyan, jelly-kneed and stammering like some sloe-eyed Chantry brother after whatever flirt the man lobs his way. But Trevelyan's no fool. He's seen the way Dorian acts. He flirts with everyone, from serving girls to Orlesian nobles. Flirting is just his nature, as much as casting spells or mouthing off to authority. He doesn't mean anything by it.

Or does he?

To be honest, Trevelyan doesn't know which would be more catastrophic.

But whichever it is, Trevelyan still can't make himself leave, and more worryingly, neither has Dorian. The two of them just standthere, like statues, like bubbles suspended in honey. With each breath Trevelyan takes, the space between their bodies lessens, the two of them drawing together ever so slowly; warm flesh pulled, irresistibly, inexorably nearer.

Just a few inches to the left. That's all it would take.

Trevelyan tests it, turning his head ever so slightly toward Dorian's. He feels, more than hears, the other man's soft intake of breath, the licking of his lips. Trevelyan fights back a shiver. Maybe, just maybe, Dorian _does_ want this too.

Just another inch.

He wonders if the mustache would tickle. Trevelyan's never kissed a man with facial hair before.

"Inquisitor," Dorian whispers into his jawbone.

"Inquisitor," says Helisma.

Trevelyan startles so badly that he knocks into Dorian and sends him staggering back a few feet. "Yes?" he says, voice thin and high and strained.

"I seek a book on—" She notices the book still clutched in Trevelyan's hand. "Ah yes. That is the book I require."

Trevelyan clears her throat, trying to make sense of this. His neck is still wet from Dorian's breath; his lips still tingle, wanting, _aching._ He bites them to rid himself of the feeling. "You need _this_ book, specifically?"

"That is correct," she says evenly.

"But, uh, I need it," he says. _Because if you take this book away, they'll be able to see my erection out in Val Royeaux._ He looks back at Dorian, who looks a bit dazed himself. "For, uh, reports."

Helisma nods. If she notices the bulge in his pants or the sweat on his brow, she makes no indication. "Then please inform me when you have finished using it, as this book would be most beneficial to my research."

"Will do," says Trevelyan with a salute.

Helisma blinks, which is about as close to a _what the fuck?_ expression as a Tranquil will ever show, and glides off as noiselessly as she'd arrived.

Trevelyan lets out a sigh. A wave of exhaustion overtakes him. Apparently it's hard work being so aroused. He turns around to face Dorian before he thinks better of it.

Dorian, having recovered himself, stands with crossed arms and quirked eyebrows, and somehow looks even more scandalously alluring than before.

"Don't start," Trevelyan mutters, flushing. "I'm embarrassed enough as is."

"But a salute?"

"I panicked," says Trevelyan. "She reminded me of Seneschal Loreen back at Ostwick."

Dorian laughs, a bell-like sound, clear and strong. A frission sparks down Trevelyan's spine. It's shameful to think what Trevelyan would do to hear that laugh every day. "A Tranquil reminds you of your seneschal?" says Dorian. "Cheery place, your home town."

"It really is. All that foul fish stink and sea spray." Trevelyan chuckles weakly. "It's especially jolly when it storms. Which is all the time, of course. You should see it."

Dorian hesitates, smirk falling. For just the barest fraction of a second, he looks young and vulnerable and maybe even a little scared. "I'd l—" he begins.

But before Trevelyan can even be sure of what he's heard, Dorian clears his throat and sets the smirk once again carefully into place.

"Nevermind. You have your book, I won't keep you," he says. "But should you desire I come to your quarters and read it to you," he winks, the bastard _actually winks,_ "just say the word. I'll be up a while yet."

 _Me too, Dorian._ Trevelyan thinks fondly of that cold bath. _Me too._


End file.
